Dies Deus Irae
by not dragon
Summary: Remember the virus Dr. Crane injected Solo and Kuryakin with. What if it isn't cured? MFU/Lovecraft universe .. who knew?
1. Chapter 1

Dies Deus Irae

Remember the virus Illya and Napoleon were injected with? What if it's not gone?

"You want me to what?" the slender red head stared at Diamene with huge round eyes of an icy pale green.

"You heard me," Diamene answered her. "I want you to go to New York in the United States and join the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement," she reiterated in her honeyed tones.

"Why would you wish me to do this thing?"

"Because you owe me. Because it fits your talents. Because I need someone to keep an eye on two of their agents and because you will enjoy it so very much," she answered with a broad smile, her sleepy eyes crinkling a the corners in pure joy.

"Oh. Well. If you put it that way."

"Oh, my dear Irae, I just have."

Irae struggled not to be ensnared by Diamene's good humor and lost, a grin answering the blonde's smile. "All right. New York? As in Statue of Liberty, Empire State Building with giant monkey, hundreds of skyscrapers New York?"

"Is there another one?"

"Uh .. no?" Irae regarded her warily.

"Then you have the right one. The General has graciously made arrangements for the train to Budapest and air travel from there to the United States. Here are your papers." She handed a thick wad of items including three passports and several other identity/visa originals to the red head who sorted through and then stowed them in the pocket of her leather coat. "You will contact their Number One Section One when you arrive. He is expecting you."

Irae raised her eyebrows. "He … knows?"

"Let's say he … probably knows more than he allows himself to think he does. He has now and again expressed a desire to see how we would work with his field agents."

"Ah. He does not allow himself to think of the reality, just the usefulness," Irae translated with a nod. "And the Old Ones? Do they approve?" The answer to that would tell her a great deal.

"They do not disapprove. The two agents concerned helped rescue the Drakoci boy."

"Ah … He is doing well," she agreed with a thoughtful nod. "And without the two, young Radu would not be with us. So, I am to … monitor their health?" she asked with another grin.

"Exactly. Corporal Andreski is waiting to take you to the train. I took the liberty of packing your bags for you."

Irae scowled for a moment. "So thoughtful of you, Domne." She gave the blonde a nod, turned on her heel and left.

Diamene continued to look after the younger woman long after she was out of sight. "I do hope this was the right choice," she remarked in her soft Southern style drawl.

MFUMFUMFUMFU

Napoleon Solo, the dark debonair ladies man and CEO of the New York headquarters of the UNCLE, sat leaned back in his chair, fiddling with a pencil and thinking; his dark eyes vaguely unfocused as his usual partner walked in with an armload of files, his white lab coat streaked with chemicals and a frown on his face.

"Napoleon," he started ominously, dropping the stack of files on Solo's desk. "You were supposed to sign off on all these reports two days ago. Not to mention finishing up the commentary on the top two."

Napoleon regarded the more slightly built blond for a long moment before sitting up and taking a quick look at the files. He frowned at several of them, pulling them out and flipping through the pages. "I swear I signed off on these two days ago," he echoed the time element his partner had stated. Quickly he pulled out a pen and scrawled a signature in the appropriate place, tossing the files into his outbox. "And where did you find these? They should still be cluttering up my desk if I haven't signed them."

"Chase had them. They were in your outbox. It wasn't until she dropped one and had to retrieve the scattered pages that she realized they were not complete." The somber blue eyes regarded him seriously, the question the Russian did not want to ask out loud simmering in the background.

"I'm fine," Napoleon answered the unspoken query. "Or, maybe not," he added with a sigh. "I keep thinking about our Romanian jaunt for some reason."

That got a quick grin from his partner. "Possibly a tall blonde woman with dark eyes and an infections smile?"

Napoleon shuddered. "Not fond of the word infectious these days," he admitted. "Not that Diamene isn't a striking woman, competent, intelligent, terrifying ..." He met Illya's gaze and saw a reflection of his analysis there. Why had he said terrifying?

Illya nodded. "Terrifying is somehow very accurate. I don't suppose you're related to the General?"

Napoleon shook his head. "Not that research can determine. Just a random resemblance. The old "everyone has a twin" issue, I guess. Glad he isn't Chinese, that would be disconcerting ..." he added with a laugh. He looked at the files. "I guess I'll get these done for real, this time. I wonder what it says about me that I apparently dreamed I finished them ..." He pulled a couple of files from the stack, glanced through and signed off.

Illya went to his desk, stripping off his lab coat as he did so. "Perhaps we should … consider some of the vacation time Mr. Waverly mentioned. It is not often he … gives one a choice in the matter."

"True. Usually he's enforcing medical's decisions," the other answered absently, flipping open the next file and tossing it across his desk abruptly. A large, sluggish tarantula staggered a couple of steps and then scuttled for the door. "What the hell?"

Both men scrambled to their feet and dashed for the door. The spider was gone. A couple of personnel passing in the hallway looked at them curiously, but there was no rash of people avoiding a large, hairy arachnid. Where had it gone?

Napoleon met Illya's pale gaze. "There was a tarantula … wasn't there?"

Illya nodded. "I saw it. There is no way it could have vanished like that …" his tone ended in doubt.

They turned back to the office and stopped again. The file was not on the floor. Nor was it on Napoleon's desk and Illya's remained as empty as it was when he entered the room.


	2. Chapter 2

Irae Helena Chase gazed thoughtfully at her security monitor. Alexander Waverly had accepted her at face value. The letter from Diamene probably helped. She made a moue with her plump lips as she watched the file go flying and the two men react to something she could not see. There was a definite probability that the two were somehow under the influence of something. Although nothing she had seen in the analysis would account for even limited hallucinatory behavior.

She looked back over Kuryakin's file. There were still the wounds on his neck. Diamene was not aware of anyone producing them and the insidious Dr. Crane was no longer available for comment. She glared at the photo, picking up a magnifying glass and staring at the image. There was no way of telling what the wounds were and she was quite aware that his neck bore not even a pale scar from the damage. Damn.

Irae shuffled through the reports. Nothing in Solo's file mentioned such wounds. Still, Crane had him in her clutches for some time. Needle marks faded swiftly. The evidence was entirely inconclusive. Still, something had made the CEO toss that file and both men exhibited strong reactions to a bare spot on the floor. Indeed, they both behaved as though they had watched something leave the office. Wait. She backed up the tape. Where did the file go? She ran the tape slowly. One moment it was there, the next it was gone.

Not good.

In her persona as a clerical assistant, she collected Solo's files, smiled impartially at the two men and was walking out when Solo said "Majorca."

His partner frowned. "I thought you said Jamaica."

"Jamaica it is," Solo agreed with a smile, picked up the phone and contacted the lovely ladies who made reservations for them. "Clarice? Solo, here. Two tickets to Jamaica as soon as possible. Time doesn't matter. Thanks. What? Oh, no. Vacation time. Round trip, five days." He listened as she read his instructions back. "Perfect. Let me know when you have the tickets."

So, Solo and Kuryakin were on their way to Jamaica for a vacation. She took the files down to the archive section for recently completed missions before dropping by Mr. Waverly's office. "Do you have a moment, sir?" she asked politely.

Waverly nodded, finished his conversation and turned his attention to the youthful redhead. "Yes?"

"Solo and Kuryakin are headed out on some vacation time?"

"Yes."

"You are aware of the concerns their … companions on the last mission have expressed?"

"Mme. Drakoci speaks highly of you. My agents generally do not need babysitting," he added dryly.

"May I show you something?" She played the security clip for him. "Although medical has released them, it is obvious that there is some sort of issue for both of them. No, I don't know why the file disappeared or how." The pale eyes watched her current boss carefully.

Waverly sat silently, filling his pipe and lighting it before responding. "It would seem that there are indeed some repercussions from Dr. Crane's experiments, Miss Chase. Follow them. Keep an eye on them. Do not interfere unless the opposition comes out into the open on this. Understood?" He didn't quite glare beneath the shaggy brows shadowing his eyes.

Irae met his keen gaze and nodded. "I will be most circumspect, Mr. Waverly. Unless something arises to make that an untenable position. I will inform you as immediately as possible should I determine that I must take action. Acceptable?" The old man nodded. "Then I will take my leave." She smiled brightly and left.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Clarice called Helena Chase to let her know that Solo and Kuryakin's tickets had arrived.

"Why are you calling me?"

"Mr. Solo isn't answering his phone. You're the staff closest to him. If you would pick up the tickets for him, I'd appreciate it. I'm headed to dinner and a movie in about fifteen minutes and don't want them sitting on my desk. The flight leaves at 11am tomorrow morning."

"You tried his communicator?" Irae asked dryly.

"I'm not allowed to do that, Miss Chase. I called his office, Mr. Kuryakin's number and Mr. Solo's home."

"I see. I will be there in a few moments to sign for the tickets." Irae put the receiver down and wondered where her assignment could have wandered off to without telling anyone. Consulting her rolodex, she tracked down Solo's number and dialed it. No answer. She tried Kuryakin's next. Also no answer. Damn. They were probably at dinner. Her watch showed it was nearly 6pm. Men.

She tracked down Clarice in the travel office, signed for the tickets and took them back to Solo's office where she found him just signing off the last of the files he'd been working on all day. Keeping her face neutral, she passed the tickets to him. "She said you're flight is at 11am, Mr. Solo."

"Ah, thank you," he said, taking the tickets and tucking them into his interior suit coat pocket. "There. That's the last of them." He glanced at the clock as he handed them over. "Aren't you here a little late?"

"I'm on salary, Mr. Solo. No overtime for me. There were a number of files left from my predecessor. I finally got them to the appropriate offices. Will that be all, sir?"

"Yes. Thank you. Illya and I will be out for a few days."

"Jamaica, I believe you said. Enjoy. The weather should be lovely." She gave him a friendly smile and walked on down the corridor. The weather was supposed to be quite nice, no storms, hurricanes or tempests menaced the islands of the Caribbean at this time. Irae smiled again. She was quite looking forward to being in the Islands for a few days.


	3. Chapter 3

Dr. Saetra Heron took a final look at herself in the mirror. Her flaming tresses were tamed into a sedate French twist, lacquered into place as only her dear Matrasiri could manage. Severe black rimmed glasses masked her brilliant blue eyes while her usual brilliant lipstick was toned down to a medium pinkish color. She nodded her approval at her reflection. Low heels, slightly too long skirt and a flowing lab coat to mask the lush figure men seemed to find so damned distracting. Good. She was ready.

The High Council was in session, half the members shadowy faces on television monitors placed around the room. Giles Faversham frowned slightly as he surveyed the table. Several seats would be empty. Hector Bailey was … busy. Whether he was actively pursuing his latest project or yet another woman to subject to his desires was irrelevant. His was the one vote the Council could count on to be biased and Faversham did not want a biased vote on Dr. Heron's plan. He smiled to himself. This was also why his latest acquisition would not be in attendance. Her bias would also be an issue.

Royke Darnall, tall, saturnine and deadly, Faversham's head of security, nodded once and Faversham took his place at the table. "Gentlemen and Ladies, if we could come to order, please?" So began the annual Northern Hemisphere meeting of the THRUSH High Council.

Dr. Heron, waiting in the wings to present her project, practiced yoga mentally while observing her competition. Dr. Dabree would get her funding. The woman was a brilliant technologist and psychological manipulator. Gervaise duBologne would not get funding since his patron was missing and the man had absolutely no couth, much like his patron. She returned his hot eyed stare with a bored glance before considering Dame Edith Munch and her companion. Dame Edith was elderly, but not senile by any means. She was also secretive and a superlative mistress of security. Heron had absolutely no idea what the woman was selling to the council this time and wouldn't until the project was successful.

That left Heron's one possible stumbling block, Chang Bela D'Antonini. He brought a frown to Heron's normally clear forehead. He was tall, lean rather than lanky, his dark hair was worn long, the wave frequently causing it to fall in his face and obscure the brilliant dark eyes. He was in constant motion somewhere. Right now he was twirling a small metallic ball? Egg? Gadget! In his long fingers, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Heron dragged her gaze from D'Antonini. He was trouble. Pure trouble. She threw him an oblique look. Pure and probably somewhat innocent. Many of her colleagues wondered if D'Antonini even knew the mission of the people he worked for. Heron was fairly certain he did not. She avoided his gaze as his name was called and he walked into the meeting. One down, three to go.

From the looks as they left, Heron knew she was pretty much on the ball where funding was concerned. D'Antonini was difficult to figure out, but his protectors on the Council would hardly deny him funding. Dame Edith was also hard to read, but the smug smile on her companion's face as they passed Gervaise was unmistakable. Dabree just burbled happily to herself, her large mad eyes behind the thick glasses seeming to take in everything and nothing as she nodded to Gervaise and Heron in passing.

Heron gave her last remaining colleague ten minutes to make a fool of himself. He was out of the room in five, seething. Had Darnall not escorted him out, Heron might have had to defend herself from the man. Finally, it was show time.

Heron permitted a smile to cross her face as she acknowledged the power of THRUSH in the men and women seated at the table, echoed by the monitors slightly behind them. "It's late, so I won't take long. You are all aware of Dr. Crane's work on a control virus?" Several council members nodded. "Good. I want to finish her project."

"I believe her notes … er … burned," came the objection in a lazy, cultured male voice.

"Her notes, yes. Her project, however, lives on. I have her two primary samples about to be delivered into my hands. "The room projector lit, a picture of two well-known UNCLE agents appearing on the pull down screen behind her. "You may not be aware that Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin, frequently consequential thorns in our paws, were two of Crane's test subjects. I have been monitoring the agents since their return from Romania. Both have been essentially desk bound while their R&D makes certain they are fit to return to the field."

Someone else snorted a comment. "And a damn good thing it's been."

"Yes, it has. However, what if all of UNCLE could be put to our purposes instead of their own? I have already ascertained that both agents are … how shall I put this? Suggestible?" she said with a smile, her eyes bright behind the glasses.

"Suggestible?"

She showed a short clip from UNCLE New York's security cameras. Solo gestured as though tossing something across his desk to the floor. Both men reacted to something unseen, stepped from the office and then returned looking puzzled. "The suggestion was a large, unaggressive tarantula. As you can see, both men reacted to the suggestion. They are now on their way to Blackpool in Lancashire where my people will acquire them for further study and evaluation. "She turned her gaze from the presentation to the Council. "Funding this project to completion will get THRUSH complete dominion over the UNCLE, to use as we see fit and without their being aware that they are being used. Success will net you a field agent to send wherever you wish, from Mongolia to gather data to your bed, if that is your desire. You can chain one to your desk or use one of their intelligent, model-ly administrative assistants as you see fit. UNCLE will be ours." She cringed inwardly over that last lure, glad that Bailey was not present. His leer was enough to make her want to run.

"Well, Dr. Crane," one of the monitors addressed her. Crane, Heron, they were all birds. "I think we should see the results on Solo and Kuryakin before we issue full funding. You require a great deal of money according to your proposal. A quarter of what you're asking should allow you to pursue the two agents. If that is successful, then we will grant you the rest."

"Thank you, sir. I'm agreeable. Since they're in the air, I will get back to my preparations for them." She nodded to the Council and turned to leave before the canary eating grin spread across her face. Now she had exactly what she wanted. For a moment her eyes caught Darnall's. Damn, what a waste. Darnall had eyes only for Faversham. Ah, well. She'd soon have Solo and Kuryakin to play with. What a wonderful time would be had by all.


	4. Chapter 4

Irae blew into the airport with an overnight bag and carry on case, heading directly for the correct counter to pick up a ticket for Jamaica. She smiled at the young man behind the counter before scanning the area for Solo and Kuryakin. Neither was in evidence. Her bag checked through, she grabbed her ticket and dashed for the boarding gate. With fifteen minutes to spare, she settled into a shadowed corner and realized her quarry was not present. They were experienced travelers and not inclined toward being late for flights. Where were they?

She glanced out the windows to see a flight boarding on British Airways. Just starting up the stairway, in the middle of the crowd of three piece suits and floral adorned hats, were two bare heads she recognized. British Airways? She scooted downstairs to take a look at the flight postings. The only British Airways leaving now was headed to England, to Heathrow. What the hell?

Irae glared at the postings before pulling out her communicator and requesting an open line to Mr. Waverly.

"Miss Chase?"

"Solo and Kuryakin are boarding a flight to Heathrow. The flight to Jamaica is boarding in a few moments. I don't think they're going to Jamaica, sir. I think they may have been compromised somehow."

"Indeed. It would seem that your concerns have become legitimate. Follow them."

"Yes, sir. On it." She scanned the area and located a solitary woman who was walking away from the airline counter looking dejected. "Excuse me, ma'am. Were you looking at a flight to Jamaica?"

The woman regarded her suspiciously. "I was wanting to go, but there are no seats."

"You're in luck, then. I have a ticket I can't use. It's round trip, five days. And this is my hotel reservation. I'll contact them and tell the hotel to expect you. Now," she put the ticket and hotel information in her hands. My name's Helena Chase. If you'd be so kind as to collect my bag when you arrive, I'd appreciate it. Just leave it at the hotel when you leave." The intercom blared around them with boarding information. "I'd run, if I were you. Have a good trip."

The woman gaped at her for a moment before clutching the ticket hard and scurrying for the boarding lounge.

"Well, that's taken care of. Now, how do I follow them when the next flight isn't for hours?" She scrutinized the board and realized there was nothing to do until seven in the evening. A charming smile and inquiry at the British Airway's counter produced the information that the seven pm flight was the earliest one they had departing from La Guardia, or any of the other airports around New York. Damn. She found another secluded area to check in again. "Open Channel D. This is Chase, again."

"You've encountered an issue?" Waverly's voice answered her.

"Flights, Mr. Waverly. There's no way to get there in time … well, not in time to intercept them at the airport and send them in the correct direction, sir. I may have a way to keep them under surveillance, but I can't get there myself for another …" she consulted her watch. "Fifteen to sixteen hours depending on the flight. UNCLE London?" Irae asked, truly annoyed at the situation and her own helplessness.

"Come back in, Miss Chase. We'll look at what we can do from here and check with the London office. At least, we have some idea where to start looking. Waverly out."

She folded the slim pen sized communicator and stuffed it in her pocket. As she waived down a taxi to take her back into town she had another thought. She needed to get in contact with Diamene and let her know that things had gone awry.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Onboard the British Airways flight, Napoleon and Illya were seated together which felt a little odd. On duty they were never together, generally not even on the same flight. Illya settled in for a long technical manual read while Napoleon flirted with the trim blonde flight attendant. Whoever decided to have stewardesses on airlines certainly had his vote. They were so much more pleasant on the eyes than the equally well dressed stewards. He ordered a drink and confirmed lunch and dinner for both of them.

"I could order my own dinner," Illya pointed out.

"I know," Napoleon agreed, plugging in the earphones and choosing a classical station to listen to from the three supplied by the airline. "Hmm, Swan Lake. Not bad music."

They were both fiddling with the volume when the Captain came on the intercom to greet people and do his beginning of flight spiel. Neither man caught the change of destination from the one they thought they were headed for.

Seven hours later, both men awoke from a refreshing sleep to look out the window of the airline at a very gray day.

"Napoleon. It's raining."

Solo looked at the practically monsoon water pouring down on the tarmac. He frowned at the rain. Wasn't the weather for Jamaica supposed to be clear and sunny? And where were all the friendly, smiling people with dark skins and dreadlocked hair? And beauties in bathing suits?

Slowly, he drew his itinerary from his inside pocket and opened it. New York to Heathrow to Blackpool. What the hell? He handed the itinerary to Illya without a word. "Napoleon …"

"Something is very, very wrong," Solo agreed as they stood, stretched and followed other passengers off the airplane.

They passed quickly through customs and caught a taxi to a hotel so they could sit down and discuss the situation. Neither of them was comfortable with discussing it in public. While Illya was checking the room for surveillance devices, Napoleon ordered room service for jet-lagged travelers. Lunch and dinner on board the BOAC flight had been good, better than the usual, but Napoleon felt the need for a snack and a drink.

"Clear." The Russian turned his attention to his partner. "What happened?"

Napoleon searched the room for visual clues that weren't there. He'd taken the tickets from Miss Chase, tucked them in his pocket and gone home for the evening. "I transferred the tickets to my coat this morning, picked you up and absolutely nothing happened between my apartment and the airport to … Wait a minute. I looked for the flight number, but not the destination."

"You looked at the tickets," Illya added.

"But I didn't really look at them, just checked the departure time and the flight number."

"It did not strike you as odd that we were flying British Airways?"

Solo's gaze met his partner's as a knock sounded at the door. He took the three steps to answer the knock. Most of his thoughts fled his mind for a moment as he took in the woman delivering the trolley with their food and drink on it.

"Good Morning, sir," she greeted him in a voice just as lush and distracting as her tailored wait staff uniform made her body. "May I?"

He stood back to allow her to enter, watching her nod pleasantly to his partner before setting the order on the small table between two chairs by the window. Ice, bourbon and a bottle of champagne in a cooler completed the arrangements before she presented him with the bill to sign.

"Will there be anything else?" she asked with a quite suggestive up and down glance.

"No, thank you," Illya answered for him as he tried desperately to kick his brain back into gear. "Napoleon," the Russian addressed him with a sigh.

"Too good to be true," he muttered under his breath and stared at the food wondering if it was worth it to actually eat now. His stomach rumbled mildly. "Jet lag. Shall we?"

"You're going to trust it?"

"Yes. The lady was alluring, definitely sending the 'come hither' with her looks, but …"

Illya nodded in response, sitting and digging into the breakfast Solo had ordered. "Tarantula. Tickets. Someone wants us someplace other than Jamaica. I wonder why." It wasn't really a question.

Napoleon shot him a quick grin. "Who have annoyed lately?"

"THRUSH."

"Which is not new."

They ate in silence for a while, Illya shoveling food from his plate swiftly while Napoleon took a more relaxed attitude. The latter opened the bourbon and poured a goodly amount into the glass, adding ice and sitting back to swirl the deep brown liquid around the glass, chilling it swiftly before taking a sip. He frowned at the champagne, reached out and turned it in the bed of ice surrounding it.

"I didn't know they made champagne in Romania."

"What?" Illya took a look at the label, pulling the heavy bottle out of the ice. Castle Drakoci. The silence deepened as they stared at each other and tried to pull their thoughts into some coherent line of logic.


	5. Chapter 5

Delaney Cowl stared at her sometime partner with her jaw slightly dropped. "Say again."

Crawford Oxblood grinned at her, turning his gamin looks a bit scary as he did so. "The big boys from New York are here," he intoned in his horror posh accent. "And we're watchin' em. Boss says they's in trouble and need sittin'."

Del didn't know whether to be more horrified about her partner's badly mixed accent or the fact that the abominable Solo was in town. Not that Del had ever actually encountered the horrid American personally, but he was legendary on his treatment of women as playthings. "Why? Can't the golden boys manage on their own like they always do?"

"If they can't manage to get to Jamaica and end up here, maybe they're not so golden." Again with the drop jawed grin that forcibly reminded her of a dog she'd known.

"So, what are we doing?"

"We heads over to the hotel and keeps an eye on them."

"Right." She eyed his suit which he was under the impression was the latest Mod style. Frankly, she'd have preferred him in rocker leathers. She quickly wiped that image from her mind. It wasn't that Craw wasn't attractive, at six foot two and all lean whipcord muscle, most of which she'd seen at one time or another, he was more up her alley than she was comfortable with. But the insane mixtures of accent threw her right off. Good thing he couldn't keep his mouth shut, she might have been in trouble if he was the strong silent type.

The trip via taxi was a short one. The hotel was midrange. The lobby was a comfortable mix of wood and seating with small tables and access to the bar/restaurant easily observable. Of course, if your quarry doesn't come down to the lobby or bar or restaurant, it's difficult to keep an eye on them surreptitiously. Del made inquiry after Mr. Solo at the desk. The desk rang the room. No answer.

"Craw, we have a problem. They're not answering."

He checked his watch, one of those huge abominations that covered a good two and a half inches of the back of his wrist. "Out for breakfast?"

"Jet lag."

"In for … nyah, Solo'd never let the phone ring. Up we go?"

"Up we go."

The hallway was serene, deeply carpeted for maximum sound deadening. They walked to the door indicated and knocked. Craw supported the wall with his shoulders, arms crossed, fingers of his left hand within easy reach of the gun holstered under his right arm. Del knocked again. She shot a look up and down the corridor when silence met her ears again. With a deft touch, she neatly picked the lock on the door and pushed it open, her Beretta openly in her hand as she did so. "Mr. Solo? Mr. Kuryakin?"

Her voice echoed in the empty room. Craw followed her in, pushing the door to behind them. The room was immaculate, empty.

"Tell me we didn't just Raffles the wrong room," Craw asked, nearly dropping all pretense to any accent.

Del, stepping into the bathroom, shook her head. All was in order, except the damp towel in the provided hamper. "No. They've been here." Working in unison, they expertly checked the room for signs of what happened to the two senior agents. While the room had been made up again, the people responsible had left some evidence behind. The pillows were not pristine; wrinkles from a head lying against the percale case showed that someone had slept here. So did the stray dark hairs on one pillow and pale blond on the other.

"Crap." Del's reaction was succinct as she pulled out one of the new style pen communicators. "Open Channel F, this is Cowl." Shortly she was in contact with her boss. "They're gone. Oxblood's checking with staff to see if anyone noticed. Room's been emptied and straightened. Missed mopping out the shower and left hair on the pillows, other than that, complete straighten up." A corner of paper caught her eye as she perched on the corner of the built in chest of drawers. Trapped under the wastebasket was a sheet of paper with the itinerary on it. "Any reason they'd have booked a flight to Blackpool?"

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Illya became aware of the motion of a vehicle swaying around him as it tooled through traffic. The rough feel of rope around his wrists came into focus. He opened his eyes a slit to see Napoleon, also tied up, lying on a thick chunk of carpet near him. Carefully, he tested the rope. Damn. Not tight enough to cut off circulation, but definitely in the "I could use a knife to cut this" category. From what he could see of his partner's wrists, Napoleon was equally well secured. .

He took his time looking about the inside of the vehicle. Apparently it was a van of some sort, the rear completely separate from the cab area. On the down side, there was no way to see their captors. On the up side, neither could the drivers see them.

"Napoleon." No response. Whatever they'd been given to knock them out was still at work, which was a little odd. With Napoleon's greater height and mass, he was usually the one to awaken first. Illya rolled over and moved toward his partner until he could get his nimble fingers on the rope securing his wrists. It took a few moments, but then he had Solo's wrists freed. If he could just get him to wake up now.

He pulled the other man onto his back and shook him. Still no response. Leaning against Napoleon, Illya levered himself up into a more seated position to get a look at what other damage might have been inflicted. As Napoleon's head lolled over to the right, he noticed fresh blood on the agent's neck. Nothing much, but an injection site just over the carotid might explain why the man was still unconscious. He leaned forward to get a better look. Twin punctures spaced just about the width of a human jaw from canine to canine.

"Nyet!" he denied his first thought explosively. "There are no vampires!"


	6. Chapter 6

Diamene swore viciously when word reached her that Solo and Kuryakin were out of reach of Irae and that the London office of their organization had misplaced them. The General raised an eyebrow as she deposited the receiver with a thump into the receptacle.

"You should treat my equipment with more respect," he pointed out.

That got an arch look. "But my dear, I always treat your … equipment … with respect," she pointed out with a smile.

The General sighed. "Incorrigible," he produced in English, his r's rolling dramatically. His laugh spoiled the effect somewhat. "So, what is the problem?"

"Solo and Kuryakin … not coming here," she made certain to assure him.

"I am still affecting repairs from their last visit, not, of course, that I blame them for the fire. Life becomes … exciting when they visit." He continued to look expectant.

"They were to go on vacation, they are in London instead and now neither my people nor theirs have any idea where they are. It was not Irae's fault. The timing of the flight precluded her getting on board. She will be there soon enough, but they are missing already." She sounded just a bit petulant about that situation.

"You wish to go? They were, after all, helpful in retrieving your cousin and in seeing that the family is settled in the U.S."

"You're not mad about that are you?" She asked as she twined her arms around his neck and held him close.

"As a member of the government, I am dutifully distressed that our people chose to leave the country and seek asylum in that decadent, sybaritic country. As the local … supervisor, I am not happy that the population of the area, already low, is seeking to move elsewhere. As a friend, I am glad they are no longer here. It was not safe, especially since my superiors choose to welcome this THRUSH with open arms. I do not trust them. Not only because of the madwoman with whom we dealt, my delicious blonde beauty." He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her so close they were in danger of becoming one entity. He dropped a kiss on her head, her cheek and then sought out her lips. For a while there were only sighs, and sounds of contentment.

"You are concerned," he continued as they settled on the deep cushioned sofa with her on his lap.

"If two men are going to Jamaica, how do they get on a flight to England and ultimately to … what was it? Blackpool? There is nothing there besides a tower that emulates the Eiffel and an international airport."

The General chuckled. "Surely, if there is such an airport, there must be something there to attract people. "

"You don't suppose those stupid people that Crane worked for have an outpost there?"

"You make it sound like a frontier, my delight. Surely this place is more civilized than that. Crane is dead. Her notes burned with her. How would someone else carry … on … blood samples. But they were free of the virus," he objected to his own analysis.

"They no longer showed symptoms, my General." She made the words very possessive. "But that does not mean cure. Some viruses and bacteria can live in a host for a very, very long time. If they were not cured completely …" She kissed him deeply and stood. "Sorry. I must make certain this is not a problem for us as well. "

"Go. I will be here when you return. Or soon thereafter."

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Half an hour of rhythmic rocking down the road later, Illya had the last of the ropes off his ankles, Napoleon untied and the groggy agent sitting up and frowning at him. He explained what he had deciphered of the situation.

Napoleon nodded, then shook his head vigorously to get rid of the fuzzy brain issue. The windows in the back door were mesh reinforced, thus probably unbreakable without a gun to shatter the glass. The pallets they slept on were surprisingly comfortable. The interior of the van was empty of anything that might hurt them, but also of anything that might help them escape. Neither man recalled getting to sleep, but neither was wearing the travel rumpled clothing from the flight.

"Someone doesn't want us unduly inconvenienced, except for the abduction," he observed dryly.

"Probably did not expect us to awaken." Illya looked out the back windows. "It's about noon? Perhaps. We arrived at the hotel shortly after 1am local time. If it is noon now, how long have we been on the road?"

"Too long. We're probably almost wherever it is they want us … whoever they are." Outside the van, the sound of other traffic was picking up. "So do we see where we're going? Or do we leave?"

Illya tried the handle to the doors. The door popped open quietly. "This is too easy," he intoned and widened the opening to see late model English vehicles around them. "There should be a light or a stop sign soon." The van slowed as he spoke. "The odds of escape are good."

"The odds of finding out what's going on are better if we let them take us there."

"The odds are best if you let us help," a woman said just on the other side of the opening. "Mr. Kuryakin?" Del Cowl looked up at him with a friendly smile. "Glad to see you're in one piece. I'm Del Cowl from the London office." As though the accent didn't give that away. My partner's talking to the driver. Apparently, they thought you were secured." The laugh in her voice was obviously aimed at the clueless THRUSH operatives rather than the two men in the back of the van.

"Miss Cowl," Napoleon nodded. He was aware that other offices had followed Waverly's lead in placing female agents in the field. He sized up the lady as he climbed to his feet. Medium height, midnight dark hair with golden glints in the sun, friendly amber eyes that he suspected might not stay friendly and a mouth that begged to be kissed … some other time. He swayed on his feet and sat down again. "I hate to say this, but I think I'll be the observer on this one. How are you feeling?" he asked Illya, the frown on his face conveying more than the words.

"I am fine."

Del saw the concern in the smaller man's face. The synergy between the two was becoming clear as she watched the silent interplay. She knew the rules, agents were not supposed to be involved; not as lovers, not as friends. Yet it was obvious there were ties between these two that transcended partnership. She recognized them as closer to home as well. Damn. So that was the secret to survival. A feline grin curved her mouth for a moment as she hauled herself into the back of the van. "You join Oxblood, my partner. Crawford Oxblood. " She saw them exchange a look. "Yeah. What was his mum thinking? Don't let the shifting accents throw you. I'll keep Mr. Solo company until we get where we're going."

Dr. Heron turned from the monitoring station where she was listening to the conversation between the agents. Excellent. Quite excellent. "Although I 'm thinking more Cowboy two step than waltz, darlings," she muttered to herself with a smile.


	7. Chapter 7

Dr. Heron flipped a switch on her console and listened as the occupants, except the driver, succumbed to the invisible gas released into the body and cab of the van. Others might enjoy the spectacle of whitish gas filling and escaping, but Heron knew that efficiency was frequently more likely to catch the opposition than showy plays were.

"It worked," the driver told her as he settled Oxblood in the seat next to him before going around to make sure the others were in relatively safe positions. He tucked the chick between the two men and secured the door. It was a shame to leave the agents' car there, but the locals would take care of it. Impound was such a nasty concept.

Ten minutes later the van pulled into a warehouse. The agents were transferred to a holding cell where Heron's research staff quickly took control of the experiment. Dr. Heron entered the research lab a few minutes later, smiling. Instead of the sedate outfit she'd worn for the High Council, she wore hip and leg hugging slacks with tall boots, a body hugging cashmere sweater with a plunging neckline and a pristine white lab coat. After all, blood and body fluids were so hard to get out of cashmere. Her hair, released from the tons of hairspray, spiraled into a flurry of corkscrew curls barely contained in a low set buckle at the nape of her neck. The glasses were gone.

She surveyed the four unconscious agents, licked her lips in a manner calculated to raise the blood pressure of all four of her male subordinates who were looking in her direction and smiled. "Very good. I want blood from Kuryakin and Solo, look for viruses, type and classify. I'm looking for anything you can't immediately identify."

She looked at the other two. "And these two are?"

"Oxblood and Cowl from the London office. They're crazy."

Heron chuckled. "Technically, all UNCLE agents are crazy because they oppose us. Of course, they think we're crazy, so maybe we're just all in the Mad Hatter's world. I want blood work on both of them. If what I hope is in Solo and Kuryakin's blood, we will use them for further testing."

Her subordinates scattered to their tasks. She watched in simple pride until her secretary informed her there was a call. Once in her office, she answered the phone curiously. "Heron, here." The voice on the other end was a pleasant surprise. "Chang, dear, what can I do for you. What?" She stared at the receiver for a moment. "Why would you need a sample of Mr. Kuryakin's blood?" After all, the man was an engineer, a brilliant and inventive engineer, but biological science was not his forte. "Oh," she said thoughtfully after he explained. "What the hell is a nano?" His laugh had the usual effect on her knees, so she sat down while he did not explain. The gist was that the technology was so new, he wasn't certain anyone would understand it but that Crane had requested his last two papers presented at the THRUSH micro-engineering conferences in Belgrade.

"How much blood?" A syringe would suffice. "I'll ship it to you." He was in Edinburgh, he'd collect it. She replaced the receiver looking a bit glazed about the eyes. Chang, here, in her installation. Infinitely naughty thoughts in myriad variations raced through her mind. "Stop that!" she told herself sternly. Dr. D'Antonini was a respected colleague, noting more. Really he was. Dammit. She took a deep calming breath and discovered just how distracting the shift of silk against skin warmed cashmere could be. Blushing slightly, she went to change into something less comfortable.

Jan Wilde, her dedicated assistant, watched Dr. Heron stalk to her quarters and jumped to … logically approached her own conclusions. The pool was up to £200 on exactly when Dr. Heron and Dr. D'Antonini would finally succumb to each other. Another pound for another logically produced time and date could win her that vacation to Jamaica she coveted.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Dr. Heron walked into her quarters to find someone there ahead of her. Incredibly green eyes looked her over as the woman rose from her seat at Heron's desk. Her pale face was accentuated by her blue black hair, raven's wing eyebrows and black cashmere sweat and skirt. Her knee high boots were also black with stiletto heels.

"Who are you and how did you get in here?"

"The name's Yuconovich, Dr. Heron. Where are Solo and Kuryakin?"

"What? Why … I have clearance for my project." Heron wasn't used to being on the defensive, especially with another woman.

"You have clearance from the High Council in the form of funding. However, you neglected to clear your use of my strike team in your experiments, as did your predecessor. Solo and Kuryakin are mine. I want them back now."

Heron glared at this annoying woman. "Your strike team? Solo and Kuryakin are UNCLE agents of the worst kind."

The woman sighed, turned her back on Heron for a moment and then stepped directly in front of the doctor. "You don't have a patron on the Council, do you?"

"Uhm, no. I ..."

"You picked up Crane's experiments and presumed you could simply continue where she left off. You were wrong. However, I am in a position to offer you a patron. I work directly under Giles Faversham. I have a fairly free hand to select personnel for his staff. The potential to be able to control the opposition is intriguing, but I need you to release Solo and Kuryakin to me. Surely there are others you can use. By the way, where are Mr. Solo and his partner?"

"On their way here," Heron admitted. "With the virus still in their systems, it was easy to use suggestion to manipulate them."

"Intriguing. However, I am not interested in puppets. I prefer my people to be able to think for themselves."

"Solo and Kuryakin are … the opposition. They destroy us," Heron objected and had to work not to flinch when she met the other woman's gaze.

"They strike where I tell them to. Do you think their … victims? for want of a better word, were truly people who would allow us to act as a cohesive unit? To take the world, we need people who follow us, but who also think. No regime that bases on fear alone lasts. The Chinese work on fear and reward, or did. For four thousand years, this worked. Fear alone will tear them apart. The Soviet Union will fail. Again, all stick, no carrot … or very few carrots. Yet an empire without adherents, without true believers, willing to sacrifice themselves for the greater good, dies so easily. Puppets are cannon fodder, but they cannot recognize when to fall on the grenade and when to scoop it up and toss it back. Solo and Kuryakin are mine. You will release them."

"And just what do I get out of it? The High Council wants what Crane started and I can give them."

Yuconovich sighed. "What the High Council thinks it wants and what is best for THRUSH are sometimes at odds. There are other agents, just as good, who can be used … although I suspect you will find that most of them make most unsatisfactory playthings. UNCLE London has assigned agents to find and free my strike team. Use them. Do try not to kill them. They're far more useful alive than dead."

Heron frowned. "Patron?" she prodded and almost wished she had not. Yuconovich smiling at her was nearly as worrying as her previous annoyance.

"I will speak to Mr. Faversham, Doctor. You are very skilled and there are a couple of projects we might be able to use your expertise on." The too green eyes focused tightly on Heron. "You're friends with D'Antonini, aren't you?"

Oh hell. Was that a problem. "We have interests that coincide." The laugh that met her cautious statement was rich and genuine, startling the Doctor. "Is that a problem?"

"Oh, heavens no," the other reassured her. "Chang's a doll. Absolutely adore his too focused for sanity methods. Please, work with him. He needs someone to keep him from getting lost in the ether or inside his own experiments." She giggled at a memory. "Remind me to tell you about the time I had to unwire him from one of his experiments. Now. Mr. Solo and Mr. Kuryakin."

"Should be arriving just about now."


	8. Chapter 8

Napoleon came groggily to consciousness, his mouth felt like the bottom of a birdcage; or the way he thought the bottom of a birdcage would taste. He sat up. No headache. That was good. Someone made a grumpy noise. Illya was curled on his side, back to his partner, apparently wandering his own way back to the waking world. A faint smile curved Napoleon's mouth as the Russian went still.

"Hello Sleepyhead."

Scowl. "Where are we?"

"Don't know."

Room. Square. Concrete block. Thick blanket on the floor under them. Jug. Glasses. Food. Old fashioned water closet. Good. He got to his feet and ambled over to the facility. "Well, we've been in worse," he observed as he alleviated his most pressing concern. He was a little unnerved as he pulled the chain and several of the blocks in the wall to the side moved and a sink slid into place, complete with a bar of soap.

"Technological …"

"THRUSH," Illya agreed, waiting his turn.

"This does not feel right."

Illya's gloom lightened for a moment. "This is THRUSH. We are captured, locked in … Napoleon, there's no door," he observed.

"Yeah. But with this sort of ability," Napoleon gestured to the sink, "maybe the door is high tech also."

"Of course, it is," a familiar feminine voice agreed from within the room.

"You."

She smiled. "Me. How's the head?" she asked politely.

"Fine," Napoleon practically growled. Why he was so angry he wasn't entirely certain. Maybe it was because she was looking crisp, cool and collected while he was grimy and wrinkled. Then again, maybe it was because she had lived up to Illya's evaluation when he didn't want her to do so. "Yuconovich."

"In the flesh. Sorry about the accommodations, but I didn't want you escaping before we figured out if the serum is completely out of your systems. I'm certain you understand."

"Didn't want it leading back to you?"

She laughed. "It would not have led back to me anyway, my dear Solo. Follow me please." She turned neatly and exited. In the hallway, six guards in the ubiquitous THRUSH jumpsuit, but not with the usual thug looks, joined them.

"Worried?"

Another chuckle. "Not really. But there are those on the premises who might get nervous if you were on your own. Your reputation, fully deserved, precedes you and many of our people are … well, how shall I put this? Less than sterling characters with itchy trigger fingers." She looked sideways to meet his gaze. "Technically, these men are here to protect the two of you."

Illya looked stoic, as usual. Napoleon rolled his eyes. Protection? Really? They came to a bank of elevators and took one up. Four of the guards accompanied them, the other two taking up positions to guard access to the shaft. Six floors up and the doors opened onto a business like hallway. Two secretaries, arms full of files, strolled along in discussion. A young man in shirtsleeves rolled a mail cart along, stopping now and again with deliveries. Giles Faversham, neatly clad in a three piece suit, followed by the looming presence of his prime assassin, Royke Darnall, stopped as they exited the elevator. He gave their captor a wry look.

"Collecting?"

"Rescuing. But that's to be kept mum, of course. Any word on the leak in my research department?"

Darnall handed her a sheet of paper. Her face went cold. "That man is so dead."

Illya and Napoleon both looked at her curiously. Neither had seen her quite so hostile previously. They met Faversham's gaze, noting his frown.

"Destroying the researcher ..."

"Not the idiot. I have had enough of the asshole." She met his gaze. "Look, if you have to throw me to the dogs, do so. At least, he'll be out of everyone's hair. Meanwhile, I need to get this taken care of. How's the day otherwise?"

Mercurial that was the word Napoleon was searching for. Suddenly, Cheri Yuconovich was much scarier than he had thought. "Exactly what ..."

"Shh. Least said, soonest mended. This way gentlemen." They proceeded down the corridor as though business always needed four gun toting guards to proceed. This being THRUSH, maybe it did.

A few moments later, they entered a spacious office. Cheri shooed them into a room suite beyond the office where they found a change of clothing and access to a palatial bathroom. The lock clicked behind them, but they were alone. While Napoleon showered and shaved, Illya took a thorough inventory of the room.

"Seems to be her home away from home," he told Napoleon as he availed himself of hot water. "The file on the desk is of interest."

"Still don't trust her."

The blond head poked out of the curtain, frowning. "Of course, not. She is THRUSH. But I think we are safe enough for the moment. She doesn't seem to approve of viral slaves." He disappeared back into the steam.

Napoleon dressed before perusing the file indicated. Crane's virus apparently had three stages. He and Illya survived the first one which had a ninety percent kill ratio. Like small pox and the plague, it was not particularly useful for more than killing. Those who survived were either carriers or cured. Carriers could look forward to two more phases of the infection: the slow erosion of will that Crane had tried to hurry into place and a final stage that Crane had only produced once and was not entirely certain was due to the virus. Some of the samples taken from the other survivor had abnormalities in them. There was an infinitesimal bacteria that paired with the virus that troubled the researcher. Her notes stopped abruptly. Well, they would. Crane was dead, caught in a fiery maelstrom of her own making.

Still, the second phase seemed relevant to his and Illya's ending up in England instead of Jamaica. If they were becoming suggestible to that extent …

The door opened. Cheri had changed into less formal dress, denim pants, low heeled boots and a button down cowboy style shirt over which she'd pulled on a suit coat. "Feeling better? Take the file with you. I'm sure R&D will want a look at it."

"Where are the other agents?"

"Gentlemen, I'm THRUSH. I'm under no obligation to tell you anything." She held out two pairs of airline tickets. "New York or Jamaica?"

"New York," Illya answered. He took the tickets, glaring at her.

"This way." In silence she led the way out of the building and turned them loose.


	9. Chapter 9

Standing on the sidewalk in London outside a shiny business building, the two UNCLE agents were suddenly at a loss. Logic dictated that they should be heading directly back into the building to confront THRUSH. Actually, that wasn't logic, that was gut instinct which was trying hard to refute logic insisting that either THRUSH would be long gone or there would be entirely too many of them to take on by themselves. There was no guarantee that Cheri was still in the building.

Above them there was a mighty crash. They ducked instinctively as glass shards dropped to the sidewalk to the left and around them. Making sure the people around them were all right, they looked up. Halfway to the corner of the building, up on about the tenth floor a window was broken out and something on a rope dangled above them, kicking and turning until it went still. Napoleon made sure there wasn't anyone directly under the body before exchanging a look with his partner.

"Maybe it is wise not to get on her bad side," the Russian observed. They walked away from the scene. Other witnesses would tell the local police all they needed to know. Illya looked the tickets and stopped walking. "Napoleon ..."

"Hm?" He looked. "These are dated for three days from now."

They both looked back at the building. What game was she playing? Three days would give them time to find the other agents. Illya made a disgusted sound as they walked on.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Irae reported in to the London office to find the place in a quiet uproar. Solo and Kuryakin missing was not so disturbing as the disappearance of the two agents sent to retrieve them. All four were out of communication. Five minutes later, the missing New York operatives walked through the front door.

"Helena?"

"Miss Chase?"

"Hi. Mr. Waverly sent me to liaise with the London office until you were found. Damn. Short trip," she ended with a grin.

"Any trace of the two agents who found us?" Napoleon shelved his curiosity about the clerk being sent to liaise

A slender man with sandy hair worn longish, a turtle neck sweater hugging his lean torso, wandered up and shook his head. "Not a peep. What happened?"

The two men shrugged. "Left over gift from Crane's virus, apparently. We need to get this file to medical and make sure they check us out." Napoleon ignored his partner's sotto voce complaint that he was fine and medical annoyed him. "How are you and April?"

"Busy. Just back from Helsinki. Kidnapping and slavery. All taken care of. Mind you, April in harem outfit is not to be missed if you get the chance ..."

"And Mark in loincloth is laughable," his partner's voice chimed in behind them. "Medical is awaiting your arrival, gentlemen." She turned to her partner, auburn hair swinging slightly. "What happened to our agreement?" she asked sweetly.

"You didn't say anything about friends," he pointed out, his grin causing several secretarial agents in the area to forget what they were doing for a moment.

April sighed, rolled her eyes and smiled back. "All right. They're asking that we help find Oxblood and Cowl. Any ideas?"

"Someone said Blackpool, I think." Napoleon frowned. He had a hazy memory of a woman. Oxblood? No, Del. "One of them named Del?"

"Del Cowl, yes," Mark confirmed looking up from the report one of the still slightly glazed looking secretaries handed him.

April noted that things were serious as neither of the agents with a reputation for the ladies was paying any attention. "Napoleon, Illya, medical. Now. You can join us later if you get a clean bill of health. Off you go." She shooed them toward the hallway and out of the room.

"She is THRUSH," Illya grumbled as they walked down the hallway.

"Yes, she is," Napoleon agreed. "But not the general run of THRUSH heavy hitter. Wonder what the date on the other flight was."

They entered the medical section and were swept away for tests, tests and more tests while Napoleon worried at the ex-UNCLE agent's motivations and Illya wished to be somewhere else, anywhere else. Several hours later the results showed that Napoleon carried no residual viral contamination. Illya, on the other hand, worried medical. There were odd things in his bloodstream they could not identify so they let him take a look.

Napoleon wandered in to see what his partner was doing.

"Don't touch anything."

"All right." Napoleon perched on a lab stool without using his hands. "What's up?"

"Nothing."

"Illya, this is me. Your partner. Even when it's annoying, we share. We discuss. And we don't keep secrets on a mission unless we're ordered to do so."

That got a nod and a sigh. "And sometimes, even then, we do not keep them." Illya sank onto his own stool. "There is an infection. It is … it appears dormant. It does not match the virus of Dr. Crane's devising. It bears a resemblance to it, but either it has mutated or ..."

"Or you were infected with something else, something Crane didn't know about?"

The blond head bobbed. He met Napoleon's dark gaze. "I … I am ..."

"Worried?" the American supplied. He could feel the fear in his partner, but admitting that was not something either of them needed right now. "So, the upshot is that you're a carrier of a virus that no one can identify."

"Or isolate for very long." Ah. That was the worry. "It … shifts, disappears."

"Not like typhus or anything horribly infectious. So far no one else is showing any symptoms, so it is pretty much dormant. They can clear you for field."

"No."

"No?"

Another sigh and sag. "We do not know what could cause it to become active, we do not know what it does and I cannot become … Typhoid Illya." A touch of the Russian's occasionally fey humor showed at that.

"All right. What do we need to do to find out?"

"Testing. More testing. If I live long enough I may run out of samples," he ended glumly.

"No, not you. Although they might start cloning the samples. Apparently the English scientific community seems to think it's close to a breakthrough … with sheep."

Somehow that struck the Russian as funny. He snorted a laugh and smiled at his partner. "I doubt a Russian/sheep cross will work well."

"Goat," Napoleon offered. They both laughed.

"So, I'll join April and Mark on the hunt for our missing agents in Blackpool. You keep slogging away at this. Anything in the file that helps?"

"Not yet."

"You haven't looked at the file?"

"No, he hasn't," Helena Chase answered from the doorway, file in hand. "So, since no one else wants to take a look at the THRUSH file, I will. May I?" She gestured to the microscope Illya was using to stare at the virus. "Oh. Uhm … interesting." She avoided looking at either of them.

Illya caught her arm. "You recognize it?"

"I might. It looks similar to a virus that one of my instructors was trying to identify when I was an undergrad. I can see if he ever finished his study, if you'd like." She was lying. He knew it. She knew it. For the moment, Illya let it pass, any information, even if indirect, was a step forward. "I'll give him a call while I look through this." She walked out of the lab again.

"Why did she just lie to us?"


	10. Chapter 10

Irae didn't feel good about lying to the Russian, but how could she tell him what she knew? She located an empty office and put through a call to Diamene who was unavailable. Asking the soldier answering the phone to please make certain the Lady gave her a call as soon as possible, she then turned her attention to the file from THRUSH.

Crane's work was impressive, if a touch ghoulish. The virus was an infiltration device designed to settle in the brain and make the victim susceptible to suggestions. Early successes gave way to brains that dissolved into mush killing the victim. Still, three weeks of susceptible could do a lot of damage in the right place. Solo and Kuryakin had survived longer than three weeks. Something that could be attributed to aggressive treatment or to the strain mutating. She drew what she saw under magnification. There were several differences from the original notes.

This was not the original virus and the likelihood of mutation to make it what she thought it might be was slim. Damn. She called Diamene again. This time the blond answered, her slow delivery of the language as she spoke a welcoming sound.

Quickly, Irae explained the situation as she saw it. "He carries," she ended. She sensed a smile on the other end of the line.

"Well, it's not contagious as long as he doesn't bite anyone … while his mouth is bleeding."

"My Lady, does it occur to you that in the midst of combat when he might very well be bleeding is generally the time he might take a bite out of someone?" She heard the sigh on the other end. "There is no way to feed him the stabilizer without telling him. I do not think this would go over well."

"As you say. It's keeping him out of the field for now. Let me think about this and consult a couple of medical personnel here. Call me tomorrow, about this time."

"Understood. How is the boy?"

"As well as can be expected. It was a shock, but he is … adapting."

Irae smiled. "Glad to hear it. The family is doing well also."

"They land on their feet, the Drakoci. Tomorrow, little one."

Irae considered the endearment. It was a long time since she had been "little one". She went back to the file, discovering that Crane developed an antidote in case someone on her staff who was necessary became infected, although it seemed from the records that no one was so important to Crane that she would hesitate to record their progress through the illness. Still, an antidote was an antidote. She hurried back to Illya with the information.

Illya looked up from his own attempt to deal with a cure for the virus. "You found something?"

"Crane had an antidote … or thought she had. Here." She pointed to the pertinent data. "It is antiviral, but untested. Apparently she preferred to watch her subjects become mindless zombies instead of curing them when the virus started taking out their brains instead of letting her manage them."

"Zombies. There are no zombies."

"You don't believe in voudun practitioners, Mr. Kuryakin?" she teased lightly, grinning at his frown. "OK. Bad joke. Mindless slaves are pretty useless anyway. It seems that the initial forays into this experiment were short lived and messy, not to mention they lost all ability to follow orders within days. You and Mr. Solo were lucky she waited to inject you until she had a more … stable version." She met Illya's glare. "Sorry, but really, in spite of the inconveniences, at least you're alive to work on a further cure," she reminded him.

"It would be better if THRUSH had injected all of its personnel with this stuff instead of only a few," he grumbled.

"And then we'd be out of a job, which might, in the long run, be much better than THRUSH continuing to cause us to be employed. Shall I have medical put this together?"

"Nyet. I want to analyze it first. There is no point in trusting the notes of a THRUSH agent. This might be the formula for an antidote and it might be something else," he reminded her, taking the file. "Good work, Miss Chase."

"Thank you, Mr. Kuryakin. Is there anything else you need? I was considering food. My internal clock thinks I missed lunch."

"No. Go eat." His attention was obviously on the file now.

Irae left, satisfied her own hunger and returned with a sandwich which she placed on a table away from where Illya was working. She cleared her throat to get his attention. "Since I know you've been in here for hours, I brought fuel. Take a break, give it a rest, eat, return with a fresh eye. My micro instructor was quite clear on the dangers of becoming too involved with material." She ignored the look the Russian gave her. "If Solo were here he would do the same thing. Oh, my." She laughed as Napoleon came thought he door with a sack and a bottle of water. "I think I'll just go see how the hunt is progressing." A trail of smothered giggles followed her out.

Napoleon raised an eyebrow until he saw the sandwich Chase had provided. "Ah. Someone else providing lunch?" He set the bag and Perrier down next to the plate, accepting the file as Illya handed it to him. "And this is?"

"Cure. In theory." He picked up the sandwich and wolfed it down between gulps of water. "It was never tested and there's no guarantee it will work on the virus I'm carrying." He shrugged and continued eating.

"We can test it on your blood?"

"Da. But a true test will be wiping it out of my system."

"Once we've seen whether it will … What the hell?" Klaxons were shrieking all over the building. Napoleon stepped into the hall and grabbed a running agent. "What's up?"

"We're under attack, Mr. Solo. You and Kuryakin stay here. We'll take care of it."

"I hate being protected," he muttered as he rejoined his partner. "Some sort of attack. I got told to stay here." They exchanged a look. "Stupid suggestion," he muttered as they left the lab.


	11. Chapter 11

Back at THRUSH London's secondary headquarters, Cheri Yuconovich was talking to members of the CID investigating the suicide of one Lucius Alexander Bailey who was still dangling at the end of a thirty foot rope outside the seventh floor windows of a vacant office. She had explained three times that she heard a scream, a crash and dashed into the room to see the broken window, only later realizing that there was a rope leading from the heavy oak desk to the window and out. No, no one had passed her in the hall way or on her way through the door. She really could not hazard a guess as to Mr. Bailey's state of mind that day, she had not yet seen him.

Giles Faversham and his right hand, Darnall, were staying out of the way and letting Cheri handle everything. Public executions were not, after all, good for their image. Not that Bailey didn't deserve to die given the evidence Cheri stacked up against the man. She was handling the very public death with aplomb and the sort of deferential good cheer that made the CID both pleased and annoyed,.

Once the furor died down and the police figured out how to get the body down, most of THRUSH's involvement would be over. Bailey had enemies, lots of them. Who didn't?

"Gentlemen, we've been over this three times. I'm not suddenly going to do an about face and tell you I walked into an office and shoved a man out the window, neatly tying a line around his neck to make certain he strangled instead of hitting the concrete."

"Did you?" the officious, short, mustached member of the team shot back.

"No, I did not. As I said, I hadn't seen Mr. Bailey all morning. Not unusual around here. We all have our own staff and projects."

"What was Mr. Bailey working on?" the tall dark member of the team asked, smiling disarmingly.

"Not a clue. You'd have to ask his staff. I'll see if I can locate them. This isn't Mr. Bailey's normal office, they're probably in the U.S. One. Baltimore, I believe," she offered.

"What was he doing here?" shorty asked.

"I believe he said checking on availability of a commodity he couldn't get in the U.S. I can have one of my staff check on that for you, if you like." Her face was beginning to stiffen in the smile she had pasted on it. "Now, if you have no more questions, I need to let my people know what's going on."

The two men regarded her seriously and nodded. "We'll be in touch."

"Fuck," she muttered under her breath as she closed the door behind her, heading to Faversham's office immediately. As she entered, she sensed a tension in the room. "What's up?"

"Heron has run into some issues with some of her personnel. When she ordered the release of the two agents, with suitable amnesia induction, her guards rebelled and have barricaded themselves down in the cells where the subjects are being held."

"I'm going to have to go to Blackpool? Again?"

Darnall met her ice chip gaze squarely. "Mr. Faversham believes it would be best if you handled this, yes."

"Great." She looked around the room idly, chasing plans and thoughts as she did, then giggled. "Sorry. Sudden visions of Dagon or Great Cthulhu himself rising from the sea there. Not a good thing, but impressive." Her thoughts skittered again. "Y'know, we should really consider investing in the Japanese rubber suit monster movies. They fill a need, even outside of Japan." With that completely off topic comment, she turned and left, exiting the building a few minutes later to locate her sleek Jaguar XKE and roar off into the light traffic.

Faversham frowned at his companion in the swirl of silence after she left. "She has a very odd sense of humor. You'd almost think ..."

"... that neither of those were an option wherever she came from," Darnall finished the disturbing thought for his boss. "Rather wish we were there sometimes."

Dr. Heron, disheveled, bearing a large rifle along with her trusty sidearm, prowled through the empty halls of her installation slowly pulling her anger into a towering rage that her hand picked personnel were so stupid as to challenge her. What were they thinking? She whipped around a corner, at the ready and … more nothing. Where the hell were they? Maybe she should have injected all of them with the compliance virus. Maybe next time she would.

A wide metal door barred her way now. She was on the cell level where much of the medical work took place. Thinking better of just touching the door, she tossed a lipstick she found in her pocket at it. The shower of sparks was impressive. An electrified door. What the hell? Her eyes feel to the floor edge where something dark and dangerous puddled and was moving out into the hallway. That could not be good.

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the phone on the wall next to her rang. Her weapon discharged as her finger tightened on the trigger. A second ring prompted her to answer it. "Heron."

"Dr. Heron, this is Cheri. I understand you're having some issues. I'd suggest retreating to the upper levels until I get there with a friend who may be able to get your personnel back under your control."

"What is going on?"

"There's a winding black vortex of clouds over your installation; not Blackpool as a whole, just your installation. I believe something more than THRUSH nasty may have invaded and would prefer not to have to dispose of someone as useful as yourself. If you see black fluid, retreat, swiftly. Dr. Heron?" Cheri looked at the phone with some concern.

A few moments later, a breathless Heron caught her just before hanging up. "Black fluid. It's leaking out from under the door to the secure area. I think all of my staff may be down there, along with the experimental subjects I was making certain were all right to return to their respective … homes. It takes a couple of days to remove the virus successfully."

"Retreat outside if you need to. We're on our way." She looked around at the silver white haired young woman who had once been scheduled as a sacrifice to Dagon. "Sounds like more of the same."

"It may not obey me. They may all be dead by the time we get there," she spoke over the roar of the helicopter blades rotating above them. "Or they may all be taken. Why do you trust me?"

"I don't. But I think making a place for yourself beyond what the man who slew your people wanted is a good thing. Eventually, you'll make your own decision about whether to follow him or to stay human. Part of me wants the latter. You remind me of someone who was very important to me."

"Lover?"

That got a burst of laughter. "No. Partner, friend … family. Not something you'd understand quite yet, I think." She looked out the window. Oh Hell, Blackpool already.


	12. Chapter 12

Napoleon and Illya stepped out of the lab into an empty hallway. The klaxons were still sounding as they headed toward the stairway. Guns drawn, they stepped into the stairwell which was also empty. They eyed each other uneasily and proceeded down until they heard gunfire on the second floor. Popping the door, the air was redolent of sulfur and a faint fishy smell that both of them remembered.

On the other side was the open area the British field agents used as an organizational room, much like the bullpens of American police departments. As they joined the fray, each noted agents down and others ducked behind furniture and firing sporadically now. Across the room loomed a line of cloaked figures.

"Somehow, this is all Cheri's fault," Illya offered grouchily to Napoleon's faint smile of acknowledgment. He fired at one of the lumbering figures with no effect while his partner assessed the situation and figured out the fastest way to get the surviving agents out of the room.

They simultaneously spotted the muttering cultist in the fez at the back of the cloaked crowd at the same time they noted the skinny, underfed looking youth rise up behind the bad guy and plunge a short, shiny dagger into the dirty tunic covered back of same. The chant cut off in mid syllable and the cloaks stopped in their tracks. Where one might have expected milling around in confusion, this was more like all motivation ceased when the chant did.

Illya moved toward the closest member of the attacking force, pulling the hood down from a face only a mother could love. Nose wrinkling in disgust at the foul smell emanating from the corpse like flesh, the Russian backed up as the body liquified and dropped into a pile of slime. He refrained from looking at the others, knowing that they were doing the same.

Open mouthed, Napoleon stared at the mess, at the dead cultist and then at Illya. "What the hell just happened?"

"It's Her fault," Illya reiterated as he holstered his gun and started helping stunned agents to their feet. "We never had problems like this before she showed up."

That got a slight laugh from his American partner. "No, we didn't. The weird factor certainly has increased since her arrival. April," he gave the auburn haired woman a hand getting her partner out from under the desk where he'd taken refuge. "Mark."

"What was that?" The slender blond took a deft step around the noisome goo headed toward his hand made leather boots. "I have never encountered anything like the inexorable … shuffle … of that lot." His face was furrowed with a frown. "Goo people?" He met Napoleon's dark gaze, his gaze thoughtful. "This isn't THRUSH, is it?"

"We ran into something … equally peculiar … in Maine a year or more ago. Innsmouth."

"The tidal wave?" April asked, joining them again. "Where you put the entire town under water?" She grinned at Illya's scowl. "Come on, we know you didn't do it, that it was connected to something THRUSH was up to."

"Not exactly," Napoleon corrected her. "There was a connection to THRUSH, but they were as much pawns as anyone that time. The real problem was a woman who seemed to be involved in some sort of genetic research. I don't think we ever determined exactly what caused the tidal wave at that point. It didn't hit the rest of the coast, just that one harbor."

April nodded. "The ocean's a funny thing. Did one of you shoot the man with the chant?"

The two men exchanged looks. She hadn't seen the younger man, almost an adolescent, who took the cultist down? "Not me," Napoleon denied his involvement.

The head of the London office spotted the two of them at that point and hurried over to congratulate them and reprimand them in the same breath. They took it well, admitted they'd arrived just at the end of the confrontation and knew practically nothing beyond what was obvious. Neither of them felt like addressing the completely not obvious issues at hand. Napoleon escorted his partner back to the lab where their assistant was waiting for them with samples.

"Find out if there are any interns in this office," Napoleon flung at her as they entered the office.

"Interns? Oh, like the Midwest offices have during the summer?" she asked.

"Something like that. There was a young, very young, slender, ginger haired young man; not more than nineteen or so. He … knifed the man who was chanting and stopped the invasion."

"But didn't hang around to be thanked," she surmised. "So, see if there is one and if there isn't, find out how he got in and out. Anything else?" At their head shakes, she disappeared into the hallway to deal with her assignment.

"What is she doing here?" Illya asked apropos of nothing.

MFUMFUMFUMFUMFU

Three blocks away, the ginger haired young man stopped moving and melded into the shadows of an alleyway. He pulled out a communicator, much like the ones used by UNCLE agents and contacted his superior. "My Lady. They are on the move again. Invasion of the UNCLE headquarters here in London." Her drawling response was amusing. "Yes. All taken care of. Dispose of the puppeteer and the rest … takes care of itself." He listened for further instructions. "Of course. I will take pains. The two probably saw me, but no one else. I'll be on guard."

A few moments later he left the alleyway, unrecognizable, the ginger wig gone along with the Carnaby Street garb. Now he was a young businessman on his way up the corporate ladder. He hummed a few bars of A Well Respected Man as he joined the throngs of others


End file.
